Tuesday's Child ...
by Troll Princess
Summary: Sequel to "Ghost in the Shell." Dawn's new Slaying abilities lead to discoveries about her origins and destiny that Grace, Spike, and the rest of the Scoobies have a hard time adjusting to -- even more so when a new enemy returns behind a familiar face.
1. Something In The Way

[][1]

  
**Title:** Tuesday's Child ...   
**Author:** Troll Princess   
**Rating:** Mostly R, but I'll give a heads up when it gets NC-17.   
**Archive:** Sure, just give me a heads up.   
**Summary:** Sequel to "Ghost in the Shell." Dawn's new Slaying abilities lead to discoveries about her origins and destiny that Grace, Spike, and the rest of the Scoobies have a hard time adjusting to -- even more so when a new enemy returns behind a familiar face.   
**Feedback:** Can be sent to trollprincess@theslayer.net.   
**Spoilers:** Happens after the end of Buffy, Season Five. This is a sequel to my story, "Ghost in the Shell," so it helps if you read that first.   
**Disclaimer:** Not my show, not my characters, not my idea. Story's mine, but Joss Whedon owns Buffy and the rest. (And I'll bet that thought makes him giggle like a schoolgirl.)   
**Author's note:** It may not get out as fast as "Ghost in the Shell" did, but damn it, it'll get out. Here lies the second in what I've decided to call my "Will and Grace" Trilogy. The style's first-person present-tense, and is gratuitously ripped off from Chuck Palahniuk ... and then bastardized by me and my style. Chuck, you rock.   
  


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**

Tuesday's Child ...   
by Troll Princess   
  


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**Chapter One: Something in the Way**   
  


This one time, a while after my mom had found out the Master had killed me and not long after I'd returned from my big scaredy summertime runaway, the two of us had gotten jumped by a vampire coming back from the movies. Stupid bloodsucker's genius idea of a snappy comeback was, "Did your mother have any children that lived?"   
  


Mom didn't stop laughing for a good half hour.   
  


It's the one moment that stands out in my mind as I sit on her grave, knees drawn up to my chest and arms wrapped around them tightly. Maybe if I squeeze hard enough, I'll implode and disappear like some whacked-out black hole or something.   
  


Oh, God. I can't think straight. I'm thinking ... I don't know. At a tilt or something. Stop the world, I want to get off and beat the crap out of the carny running the ride.   
  


Did you know gravestones glow in the moonlight?   
  


I bury my face in the valley between my jean-covered knees, rubbing my tear-stained face across the denim. I glance up at the sky, and wonder just a little if Mom can spot Waldo in the Slayer suit propped up on her grave.   
  


This was just not my week. I don't know who the hell this week belonged to, but they are mean and evil and must be destroyed.   
  


Okay, still officially all sniffly and confused.   
  


You want to know how bad my week's been? Well, it started off with me dying. Yeah, that's right. The official pulse-ending squish-o-rama. And as if that weren't enough, it got worse. Amazingly enough, there was a worse it could get.   
  


Why? Because I died twice. Count 'em. One hop off a tower. One mental gnosh from a frothy pregnant demon. Two deaths this week.   
  


And you're saying, "Well, gee, Gracie, how did you manage a neat little party trick like that?" I don't know. I do it all the time. Drownings, comas, squishings, mental suck-fests. You have no idea how much my insurance company hates me. "What? You died _again?_"   
  


I can't resist a choked giggle at that, my throat rough from sobbing.   
  


No, wait. Not my throat.   
  


Okay, yeah. My throat. You'd be amazed what I can do with this throat, ba--   
  


Would you shut up?!   
  


God.   
  


The tears come again, though not in the shuddering torrents they were coming in before. I get the impression this body's been dying for a good cry ever since I got in it, like it's never got a chance to really let loose on the weeping front.   
  


My gaze fixates on the name on the gravestone. A hundred emotions wash over me. A protective, loving warmth is the only one that sticks to me in a thin film.   
  


Okay. Nasty mental image. And a totally wrong time for nasty mental images if there ever was one.   
  


Hey, Mrs. Summers, I croak out, then cough. Sorry, Mom, I add.   
  


Damn, this is hard. I'd rather be taking the SATs all over again. Twice. At gunpoint. Without bathroom breaks.   
  


You know that bad week I was talking about? When it started out, I was two entirely different people. No, seriously. Most of the brain was Buffy Summers, big old cuddly vampire Slayer and toss-off kid of the woman currently buried six feet under my feet. And most of the bod was Faith insert-last-name-here, alternate Slayer, former future prison matron, and sex addict.   
  


Say, "Hello, Faith." I'm being all confession-y here. It's the least you can do.   
  


But anyway, we went through some major mojo, and here we are. Sharing space in the black Corvette of Slayer bodies, as long as we both shall live, amen and oh, jeez, how'd we stumble into that mess?   
  


I hear my tear-roughened voice in the night air. God, I wish you were still here, Mom.   
  


Huh. I wonder how you'd handle this, Joyce, I really do.   
  


_God._   
  


How would Mom handle this? Her little girl goes sky-diving, parachute-optional, and ... oh, wait, there she is. Stuffed into living quarters with the same Slayer who tried to poison my boyfriend and staked one of the un-undead, a decided no-no in the Slayer handbook. And I haven't even _seen_ the Slayer handbook. But I mean, killing humans? Gotta be in the common sense chapter of the handbook.   
  


But my identity crisis? As in, my Gee-look-at-all-the-identities-I-have crisis? _So_ not top priority right now.   
  


So now you're asking what is.   
  


And now I'm saying nothing.   
  


Why? Because I've got a bottle of beer in one hand and another two bottles worth in my stomach and as if I weren't already certifiable, I've resorted to solving my current problem with alcoholism. That's why.   
  


Making no sense? Yeah, well, not particularly caring right now.   
  


Jesus ... I really should be looking for my sister. Who I misplaced. You haven't seen a teenage girl lying around, have you?   
  


No? Damn.   
  


I ease myself to my feet, still managing to trip and stumble with the effort. What's left of the beer in the bottle splashes out from the motion and gets onto my jeans. Oh, goodie. Eau de brewery.   
  


I'm feeling Slayery. I need to kill things.   
  


I continue to clutch the bottle in one hand -- hey, you never know when jagged glass'll come in handy -- but reach for the stake I've got stashed away as I head out of the graveyard. I've got two settings for stressful situations, mope and poke vampires with sticks. Right now, making leeches dusty sounds like a good time had by me.   
  


My Slayer sense is on high as I wind my way towards a section of the graveyard I tend to find a lot of vamps in, a corner with a handful of family crypts scattered around. It's like first-come, first-serve housing for the undead.   
  


Of course, there's no one there now. But hell, like Fate'd play along with my literary tendencies.   
  


I glance around, anxiously twirling the stake over my fingers. Aw, come on. There's got to be something I can kill around here. An evil soulless vampire ... a slimy man-eating demon ...   
  


My baby sister.   
  


So I hear this yelp, like a puppy getting kicked, and then out of nowhere, someone throws my sister at me. Gee, thanks.   
  


You want elaboration? All right, let's try this. Me standing in clearing surrounded by trees and crypts. Rustling in the trees and whiny puppy sound. Dawn tossed through big patch of oak trees and into my arms.   
  


Good? Good.   
  


Oh, I'm _so_ buzzed.   
  


Dawn's slim body slams into me, and the two of us tumble back into the wall of a crypt, with matching girly screams, no less. We hit the solid stone wall and slide to the ground, both stunned stupid. My bottle of beer flies from my grasp on impact and smashes against the crypt's door, the neck and its jagged edge falling not that far away from the both of us.   
  


I don't think I have to say this is not how I'd wanted to find my lost sister.   
  


I'm too busy being bad drunk Slayer to notice that Dawn's doing a lot of not noticing in my direction. Not that I blame her, what with the huge, purple, one-eyed demon that's come hustling through the trees toward us.   
  


Let me guess. He's got one horn, he's wild, and he eats people. Not that that's a new thing in Sunnydale. Come to think of it, I think there's support groups for all of those at the Sunnydale Y.   
  


Oh, yeah. Definitely buzzed.   
  


I'm rubbing at my sore, ringing head as Dawn reaches out and snatches the bottle neck off the ground, not taking her eyes off the demon. "Oh, you are so going down," she mutters as she springs to the attack.   
  


'You are so going down?' Aw, come on, she's got to be able to quip better than that.   
  


I don't catch the whole fight. Not that I don't see it, I'm just fixated on Dawn. Little cuddly Dawn, whom I got to hold the very first day Mom brought her home.   
  


_The chick who's slamming home the jagged edge of the bottle neck into the eye of the demon, jamming it in with the heel of her hand._   
  


Cutesy blue-eyed Dawn who'd been even better as a dress-up plaything than a Barbie doll.   
  


_The girl who's in the middle of knocking the demon to his quivering, pain-wracked knees._   
  


Sweet skinny Dawn, who has always had much better hair than me, damn it.   
  


_The teenager who just hacked the horn off the purple demon with the knife I gave her for protection before she left the house._   
  


The haze over my brain clears a little at that, one part of me wondering why I did that. Not a lot of big sisters going, "Here, have a sharp pointy object with you on your walk. You know, in case of hulking people-eaters." Especially in this town. Normally, when it comes to Dawn, it's a strictly "stay home or get eaten" policy in the Summers house.   
  


God, why didn't I just lock her in the basement like a normal sort-of legal guardian?   
  


Because it was the know-it-all, get everything out in open Fait part of me that let her go, that's why.   
  


She quits whacking on the demon as soon as it hits the ground and stops its wiggling, wiping the knife off on the arm of her shirt as she bends over and inspects the thing for deadness. I bite back the part of me that wants to say, "Is that shirt dry-clean?"   
  


Instead, I say, You drop your shoulder.   
  


Another yelp. Dawn whirls around, the knife falling from her hand, and her wide-open blue eyes practically glow in the dark. "Faith," she says, then claps her hand over her mouth. Nope, can't take that back now, can you?   
  


I hear myself saying, When you backhand with that one punch. You drop your shoulder. You didn't watch the tape enough.   
  


She did watch it, though. I can see it in the way she moves.   
  


Me. I can see me in her moves.   
  


Her cheeks flame up, and she looks away. I'm not sure what I expect her to say.   
  


I said I died twice this week. I said I was two people. What I casually forgot to mention was that when the body half of me died, it jump-started another two-Slayers-for-the-price-of-one special in Sunnydale. And who gets the short straw, but just forgets to tell the rest of us? You know, so that I have to find out from the videotape that ... oh, wait. I'm still holding it the remnants of in my hand.   
  


My sister the Slayer, everybody. Go on, Dawnie, take a bow.   
  


She toes the ground nervously with one scuffed sneaker, looking totally the shy teenage princess she was for a while. "Sorry, Buffy," she says, almost too quiet for me to hear.   
  


My name is Grace, I say softly.   
  


And then I just walk away.   
  


************************

  
  


Grace Anne Ellington, at your service. Gracie to my friends. You know, when they remember that's my name now.   
  


Okay, I'm still waiting on the paperwork, which Giles has got on rush delivery from the Watchers. I'm still wondering how he weaseled that one of them, but they probably think I'll make a great guinea pig. Let's just forget I'm a little too tall and hairless for that job.   
  


Grace Anne. Gracie. Grace the Vampire Slayer.   
  


It's all I can think about as I walk away.   
  


"Gracie, wait!"   
  


And that's why.   
  


My fists pump back and forth through the air as my arms swing at my sides. No idea where I'm going, no game plan on the destination. All I know is that if I spend any more time anywhere near Dawn, I may literally explode. You never know on the Hellmouth.   
  


"Oh, come on ..."   
  


I know Dawn's catching up to me, but I can't let her. If she catches up to me, and I'll start yelling. And, oh, look ... recriminations and accusations and total loss of any telephone or television or email privileges ever again. She'll rather she'd have been raised Amish when I get done with her.   
  


Why? Because she lied. Dawnie lied to _me_.   
  


Okay, not a lie. More like a skirting around the facts. A big, Gone-with-the-Wind-sized skirt, but there you go. A Slayer dies, another is chosen. What Dawn skirted around was winning the Slayer lottery.   
  


It would have been nice to know the shortened Slayer lifespan was a Summers tradition, you know. How rude.   
  


"Grace, I'm sorry!"   
  


Oh, that does it.   
  


I immediately stop and whirl around, and I can't believe how close she got to me. We're nearly face to face when I turn to face her, and I'm pretty sure I've got Slayer game face on. Dawn's seen the look before, and even now, she flinches at it.   
  


I tell her to go home. I don't think I've ever sounded so much like I was possessed, even when I was.   
  


She freezes. Pales. Gulps. Then turns around and heads towards home.   
  


Usually, I'd be telling her she needed an escort. But, hell, what's the point now?   
  


Jeez.   
  


I run my fingers anxiously through my hair, still a little stunned to feel the hair stop at shoulder-length, to sense the heavy darkness of it running through my hands. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to the permanent midnight feeling of being totally and irrevocably brunette. Kinda wondering why it's on my mind right now, but I'm guessing I need a focal point, and my hairstyle's working like a charm.   
  


Breathe, Gracie. Inhale. Exhale. You know the drill.   
  


It's only when I'm in the middle of the Lamaze breathing I've got going on that I notice where I ended up.   
  


Ha, ha. Very funny, Fate. A laugh a minute, aren't you?   
  


I'm heading into the apartment complex before I know it, avoiding the staircase I'm used to using and hitching a ride on the elevator instead. Used to be Xander's apartment was an easy stroll up the front stairs to the first door on the left. Of course, then I had to go and die, and then Dawn had to go and be all unattended, and Anya had to go and be all maternal, and you know, I can do this all day long.   
  


But Reader's Digest version is, Xander and Anya get offered to pick up a newly empty apartment in the same building that's got two bedrooms, and what with after-death guilt being what it is in these parts, they got themselves a roommate.   
  


My new boyfriend. Spike.   
  


Hmm. That sounds nice.   
  


Not nice enough to make me forget the severe mental trauma and anguish I'm in the middle of, damn it. But still, nice.   
  


So I'm out of the elevator. I'm on the third floor, I'm heading up to the very fancy door to the apartment, I'm ... I'm still drunk enough to trip and hit the door.   
  


Smooth, Grace. Really smooth.   
  


I can practically hear the Buffy and Faith halves of me arguing over which side attributed the klutz factor to the new and improved me as I slowly get myself back into a slightly less uneven tilt. As I do, there's rustling on the other side of the door, and before long, the door opens and there he is.   
  


A whiff of cigarette smoke and coppery blood drifts past me, all Spikey-scented goodness, and that bleached-blond vampire buddy I'm so hooked on stands in the doorway. Not for long, though. It only takes him a second to perk up and say hello with his lips.   
  


Well, you know. First, there's a real, "Hello, love." And there's the lips hello. Both of which are mmm, mmm, good.   
  


But kissing Spike? That's not why I'm here.   
  


Why am I here?   
  


Because I have to tell _someone_. I can't sit on this information. Dawn is the Slayer, for crying out loud. Knowing something like that will rot my brain if I can't share it with anyone. Anya and Tara are too new to the Scooby gig. Willow will cry. Xander will punch a wall. And Giles isn't all that far removed from, "Oh, let's toss Dawn into the big nasty interdimensional doohickie."   
  


The process of elimination leaves Spike. Or Mr. Gordo, who gives horrible advice. Or Mr. Pointy, who's wood.   
  


I shiver, and for once in the past few days, I'm not sure if it's because of his gentle touch.   
  


Spike pulls away, stares me down with the sexy smirk of his on his face. "Hey, Slayer. Midnight stroll?" he asks. Midnight stroll. Oh, Sunnydale's warped version of humor. Cute.   
  


I ask where Xander and Anya are.   
  


"Shagging all over her flat tonight," he says with a roll of his eyes. Then he takes in my complete and total state of "wha-huh?" and a cloud of worry floats over him. "Why? What's wrong, love?" He latches onto my hand and leads me into the apartment, closing the door behind us. The big concerned vampire hovering over his girlfriend.   
  


I glance around the apartment distractedly, then open my mouth. Slam it shut again after a long moment. It's like I lost the entirety of the English language. Whoosh, there it goes.   
  


I lift my hand, tendrils of videotape still dangling from it. Spike glances at my hand as if I'm holding a dead octopus from it.   
  


Oh, yeah, Gracie. That explains it.   
  


Finally, I hear myself say it out loud for the first time. Dawn's the next Slayer, I say, in this stunned tone of voice.   
  


There's this split second where Spike freezes, and suddenly, it's the Many Expressions of Spike show. First, there's shock. Then disbelief. Then more shock. Ooo, and then his confused face. Oh, and now we're onto the highly offended face.   
  


His eyes shifting from ice blue to churning midnight in a second, he stares me down fiercely. "You take that back!" he yells at me.   
  


I blink. It's my only defense.   
  


And I thought I was being immature. 

   [1]: 



	2. Come As You Are

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Tuesday's Child ...   
by Troll Princess 

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**Chapter Two: Come As You Are**   
  


Ever see a caged tiger at the zoo?   
  


As it is, Spike tends to lean towards the feline end of the spectrum. It's just, the way he walks, and that purring sound he makes when you ... do something that only I'm allowed to do right now. Well, he's got a severe case of sexy catlike grace.   
  


Not that I'm complaining. Just me being all observant.   
  


Hence the caged tiger at the zoo bit. 'Cause there he goes, all pale and sleek and pacing, those clear blue eyes fixed right on me as I lean against the wall, tossing the video tape still in my hands to the side. I feel like I'm holding a raw steak in my arms. Or better yet, like I _am_ one.   
  


Usually, when I have that feeling, it's followed by a lot of nakedness and groping. I don't think I have to say ... not one of those times.   
  


I'm still a little stunned from Spike's response, so I sound more offended then I am when I snap, Oops. Sorry about that. That whole thing where Dawn catches knives and stomps on demons? Must have been a figment of my imagination.   
  


Spike freezes at that, and I get a flash of pre-vampire Spike, all vulnerable and human before the fangs and forehead ridges. "You're bluffin'."   
  


Why, I ask. My poker face in full effect?   
  


"Dawn can't be the soddin' Slayer," he says. You'd think he was pleading with me, as if he could argue his way out of this. "She's not even real."   
  


I should be pissed at that. It should be my turn to yell, "Take that back!" But fact is, just this once, I let myself say, You think I didn't think of that?   
  


Spike stares. I squirm.   
  


He's _really_ good at that.   
  


Okay, I say, it never even came up in my head. I was kind of fixated on "Aw, Dawn just mutilated her first demon, and me without my camera."   
  


His shoulders slump a little at that, as if I'd magically picked this idea out of my scattered brain without any evidence, as if I hadn't actually seen her doing it. Yeah, sure. Because Dawn-as-Slayer is such a funny joke.   
  


Listen close, you'll hear the laugh track.   
  


"But she just ... she can't be the Slayer," he chokes out past clenched teeth.   
  


I ask why not.   
  


Spike practically screams, "Because it's not bloody fair, that's why not!"   
  


Damn. First he's got me beat on immaturity. Now he's got more notches in the "mad as hell and not going to take it anymore" category.   
  


I can't take my eyes off of him as he moves towards me, some of the bluster sucked out of him, but still looking mighty tasty. Our gazes lock, and a slow fire flares inside of me as he speaks. "You go out there every night against the toothy nasties of the dark, and you win. Do you have any idea how much you spook the natives? Slayers don't make it as old as you have without bein' the best at what they do. Being a Slayer ... it suits you, love. Might've had one or two bad days here and there, but you're best of bloody show. Full stop."   
  


Oh.   
  


Wow.   
  


My lips tremble as I smile, and even more so when Spike lifts a hand and brushes his fingertips over it. This amazement, pure and perfect, flickers in his eyes. Like, "Hey, I made the pretty girl smile."   
  


But there's still pain there, and he glances away. "Nibblet isn't ... she doesn't --"   
  


His voice trails off, but I know where he's going with it.   
  


Deserve this, I say.   
  


And I know I should argue this. You know, pick a side. Because Dawn not deserving this either means she's not good enough for the job, or the job's not good enough for her.   
  


Not sure how either one of those reflects on little old me.   
  


I'm silent long enough for Spike to fall back on the unfairness of it all, and his eyes go hard and steely. "She's not gettin' eaten on my watch," he says. And then he makes a run for it.   
  


Aw, give me a break.   
  


He dashes out the door before I can stop him, so Dawn-fixated he doesn't even bother picking up his duster. Frustrated, I yell out his name.   
  


Yeah, like that'll stop him.   
  


By the time I catch up to the guy, he's already out of the building, kicking the speed limit in the ass as he steers himself in the direction of Revello Drive. We're lucky the main strip's looking pretty vacant right now, because I'm anticipating major yelling in the near future.   
  


I finally latch onto Spike's arm and spin him towards me, getting him off-guard. His eyes flash golden yellow in the darkness, and he winces as he shakes off the yellow tint.   
  


But still looking pissed. Spike does all hopped up and angry pretty well. Makes me wish most of my anger hadn't gotten wiped away by the "overpowering unfairness" rant.   
  


Spike, I came to you looking for a little sanity, I say.   
  


He tenses and shakes off my grasp, though not in a bad way. "And you found it, love. Right 'bout now, a little sanity's all I've got left."   
  


Cute, really cute. I ask him what he plans on doing once he gets to my house. 

A muscle flickers in his jaw as he says with fierce determination, "Lockin' the bit in her bedroom. Not lettin' her out until they outlaw boys and demons."   
  


And you people wonder why I let him protect my sister.   
  


I cock an eyebrow, a smirk slipping onto my lips before I can stop it, and I ask him if that shouldn't be my job.   
  


Spike glanced away, runs his fingers through his hair and starts up with the pacing again. After a few seconds of that, he stops, lets loose with a sigh that he probably pulled out of his toes, and looks straight past my eyes, into a place so far inside me I'm pretty sure he'd have to look up to see spirit and soul. However many of 'em I've got.   
  


His British accent is a quivering, barely restrained whisper when he says, "Grace, you got any idea how many arrogant blokes there are like me out there, wantin' a taste of the Slayer?"   
  


I don't want to think about it. I dream up mental images of cocksure vampires ready to take on my baby sister, who can't weigh more than ninety pounds soaking wet, and I immediately blank them out. Poof. What disturbing nightmares?   
  


But I can't resist a little Spike-centered rub. I bite back another smile as I ask, You think she couldn't handle a guy like you?   
  


"No, I'm of a mind that she could. Therein lies the bloody problem."   
  


Oh.   
  


Leading back to the whole thing where Dawn is a Slayer, right? Right.   
  


Gee, thanks, Spike.   
  


Not that I say that. I'm too busy sagging against the nearest car. Not so much physically, but mentally. I'm tired. I'm still a little buzzed. And I'm throbbing in all the wrong places. And all I can think about is Dawn. Killing vampires. Doing my job. Having to go through Glory's minions and the Knights wanting her dead, but instead it's everybody who wants her dead, and every night.   
  


I can't even look at Spike when I speak, my voice flat and weary. I don't know how to handle this, I say. I tried beer, but being all drunk and goofy? Amazingly not the way to deal with stress.   
  


There's silence. And then there's this worried half-sigh, half-groan. A nice sound when you can get it, especially out of a boyfriend.   
  


Spike walks up to me slowly, his booted footsteps echoing in the shadows. He sighs when he gets to me, cool milk-white hands reaching up to stroke my hair. It's an incredible feeling, and I immediately sink forward, letting out my own sigh as my forehead falls gently against his chest.   
  


His touch is so soothing, I barely hear it when he asks, "You goin' to tell the Watcher?"   
  


My head shoots up at that, and I gulp back my fear. Oh, God, I blurt out. You've got me telling _Giles_? I'm still stuck on admitting I really saw Dawn kill a giant purple people eater.   
  


He takes a second to digest that. Blinks. Then says, "I'm not askin'."   
  


I thank him for that.   
  


He chuckles softly, his chest vibrating under my fingertips. I stroke the fabric of his T-shirt a little, warming up at the purr that immediately rises from deep within. Man or monster, the guy makes interesting sounds when you turn him on.   
  


I'm still thinking about that when his lips descend on mine, so much warmer than I expected. His kiss gentle, his hand on my cheek a welcome caress, I should be amazed my knees don't just give up and go home. Assaults like this out of the Big Bad, I could get used to.   
  


I pull back before it gets too serious and the kiss moves out of the "I'm here for you" column into "I'm here for you naked" territory. Give me tonight to see what's going on, all right, I say.   
  


It takes him a sec, but he follows up with a reluctant nod.   
  


And no tattling, I add. The last thing I need out of any of the gang is the "I had to hear it from Deadboy Jr. first" rant.   
  


Not to worry, though, from the bittersweet look in Spike's eyes. "Who would I tell?" he says, as his hand slips from my cheek.   
  


The first thought that pops into my head is, "Well, gee, everyone? So that you can build up Operation Lock and Key until you've got Xander building an impenetrable fortress in the Arctic?"   
  


But I get where he's getting at. How was he -- hell, how was _I_ supposed to break this news to anyone? Singing telegram?   
  


Oh, God. Mental image. Spike, in a ladybug costume, singing, "Gonna Get Someone To Call My Slayer."   
  


Yes. I am weird. And somewhat clinically insane. Got the paperwork to prove it and everything.   
  


Another quick smooch, and Spike heads back to the apartment complex, unfortunately without the coolness factor the duster brings. The whole swirly leather thing? Major turn-on, let me tell you.   
  


Though not now. 'Cause I've got big sister talkin' to do.   
  


It doesn't take all that long for me to get back to Revello. It's so late, it's not like anyone notices me leaping cars and scaling fences to get home. Yeah, I know. It's not a matter of life or death or anything, but hey, the shortest distance between two points ...   
  


Huh.   
  


What the hell ...   
  


Some wacko's spying on my house.   
  


Not that there's anything to see. The light's out in Dawn's bedroom, and my room looks totally unoccupied. So what's with the scrawny little guy in the trenchcoat standing under Spike's oak? Inquiring minds here, people.   
  


Doesn't feel human, though. I'm getting neon "demon alert" signs in my head, which I don't have to tell you are usually of the bad.   
  


Please don't tell me the demons have resorted to flashing me.   
  


I duck into the shadows behind Mr. Kline's bushes, blend and get all sneaky like Slayers have a bad habit of doing, then yank out Mr. Pointy and make with the attacking.   
  


So there I am, grabbing on to the guy, turning him around, raising the stake, and --   
  


Whoa. Black eyes. Guy's got black eyes.   
  


Okay, so unless the vamps are going for a new fashion statement, this one's not one of the dusty crowd. Little, wiry, old ... hey, don't I know him? Not sure from where, but then again, I've got two sets of People-I've-hung-with files in my head, so bear with me here.   
  


He blinks, and the black shadows over his eyes vanish in an instant. He stares at me in amusement, surprise, and ... oh, hey, fear.   
  


"Oh, my," he says, looking me up and down, and a sweet grandpa smile crosses his face as he shakes off my hand hard enough to knock me back a step. "Well, Miss Summers, this is an interesting turn of events, isn't it?"   
  


Miss Summers?   
  


He knows my name -- like, my real, un-uberSlayer name -- _and_ he's a demon? Oh, that can't be good.   
  


I don't even think. I just pounce, springing at him with fists ready for pummeling. Just call me Tigger, because I practically bounce off the grass towards him.   
  


Of course, getting whacked by his tail squashes that plan pretty fast.   
  


All I feel is a slippery, snakeskin length of muscle slamming into me, and my beaten body cutting through the air as it flies toward the road. The nice telephone pole I hit does me the favor of stopping my flight. Unfortunately, it also presents me with a brand new concussion.   
  


And while I'm in the middle of my head trauma, he makes a run for it.   
  


Now, color me crazy, but that was bad, right?   
  


I stumble to my feet, this time not because I've been stealing Spike's beer stash, and rub at the back of my head as I glare in the direction I think he disappeared in.   
  


I yell for him to wait.   
  


No answer.   
  


Hey, I yell, didn't I throw you off a tower?   
  


That gets a playful, impish laugh out of the darkness.   
  


Okay, this thing where the evil guys fall off towers like I do and don't get flattened? I'd just like to establish how totally unfair that is.   
  


I could have sworn I killed that guy. Or at least dented him. And while I suppose chasing after Glory-worshipping demons should be high up on my to-do list, it can wait. After all, no more Glory, no more gaping hole in reality, no more use for a toady little lizard man like Grandpa Charlie back there.   
  


I'll worry about him later. Right now, heap big sisterly talk. Color me terrified.   
  


Yeah, you heard me. Terrified. Just watch me screw this up and inflict some major teenage trauma.   
  


My fingers tremble as I unlock the front door and peek inside my house. No Dawn eating mallomars in the dining room. No Dawn yelling at the idiots on Big Brother. Nothing. I would have thought she'd made a run for it if it weren't for the oh-so-familiar hum of Dido making the wall hangings wiggle.   
  


Sob music. At least she's not bottling up her emotions.   
  


Not anymore. I'm picturing a little bottling, a little violent shaking, a little opening and spurting all over the place.   
  


I head down to the basement first, grabbing a couple of quarterstaffs. It'd been Giles's idea to stash extra weapons down here, and he'd followed that train of thought to the station where we toss a few mats down and have ourselves a spare place for sparring. Hey, couldn't hurt. (Okay, technically, if you do it right, it hurts a lot. But we're really moving into territory that's far away from the point, aren't we?)   
  


There's a Viking army's worth of weaponry down here, and I could have my choice of any number of sharp, poky instruments of death. But I was going for safe pummeling on this one. And wooden sticks? Safest pummeling going in these parts.   
  


Somehow, I manage to get up both flights of stairs and knock on Dawn's door without whacking anything with the staffs. Yay, me.   
  


The music stops -- gee, thanks, God -- and the door opens a crack. Dawn's anxious face peeks out.   
  


She immediately starts in on the babbling and nervous apologies. "Grace, I'm so sorry. I just ... you were busy with Buffy stuff, and Faith stuff, and I just --"   
  


I don't say a word. I just shove one of the quarterstaffs at her.   
  


She doesn't even think twice, swiping it from my hand. You'd think I'd handed her a frozen trout, with the reaction I get. "What is this?"   
  


A stick, I say, adding, Damn, I'm good at this game. I cock my head towards the stairs. C'mon.   
  


I don't look back at her as I head down the stairs, not even when she asks, "What for?" I get about halfway down the stairs before she trails after, calling my name.   
  


"Grace?"   
  


No answer. I'm preparing for battle. Do you mind?   
  


She figures out the sitch as soon as she sees me go down into the basement, and I could swear she lets out a breath she's been holding since I sent her home. As soon as she gets off the steps and onto the basement floor, I turn to face her, nerves ready for fighting.   
  


I tell her to show it to me.   
  


I must have tough, take-on-the-world Slayer face, because as soon as I say it, Dawn gets that twinkle in her eye. That one Kendra'd get when she headed into battle knowing she'd win. That one Faith'd get when she'd drag a willing virgin like Xander into her bed. That one Buffy'd get when she teased her friends or exchanged silent promises with her boyfriend of the moment.   
  


She spins the quarterstaff in her hands slowly, deliberately. "How much of it?" she asks.   
  


I let a little Faith slip through, the corners of my mouth turning up as I lazily spin the quarterstaff. Tell you what, I say. I'll put everything I've got into whacking you like a Catholic schoolteacher, and you try to keep up.   
  


Dawn smiles wickedly. Little 'bit's probably been gettin' lessons from the blonde. "Sounds like a plan," she says.   
  


And then it's on.   
  


Can't say she doesn't have the talent for it. She gives as good as she gets, responding to taps on the arm with nudges in the stomach. Nothing too violent or bruise-inducing. She sees it for the test that it is, and does what she's got to do to pass.   
  


But, something's just ... off.   
  


She's got the moves, but hell, she could have gotten them off those videos she watched. And the reflexes, and the strength, but.   
  


The confidence is there, though. Years of being around Big Sis, the Deluxe Edition of the Slayer model ... it's rubbed off. Probably got thoughts of straight Slayer A's running in the family running through her head right now.   
  


But.   
  


It's just not right. Even when I disarm her, and she dives for her staff ... when she swipes at my feet, and I slam into the mats ... even then, it's off.   
  


Gimme a minute. I was never good at crossword puzzles.   
  


We don't go at it long, only taking fifteen minutes before we're slumped against the wall, breathing heavily and supporting our weight on the staffs in our hands. If it'd been a more physical fight, we'd still be whacking at one another. But venting takes up more energy.   
  


She heaves beside me, the exhale of the clearly over-exercising fiend, and I can't resist staring at her. Dawn. The Key. My sister. A big glowing green ball of energy. A Slayer.   
  


Somewhere in there's a connection. Give me a few days and I'll dream up some crazy scenario.   
  


We can't tell the others, I hear myself say.   
  


Dawn's enthusiasm dims a little as she tries to catch her breath. "What? Wouldn't me being all Slayworthy come in handy? You know, just in case you need a spare on patrol?"   
  


She's got this determined, hopeful puppy-dog look in her eyes. I remember that look. It was so much more potent on her when she'd been sitting on the floor of the morgue reaching up to touch Mom's cold, still body.   
  


You know.   
  


Let me have powers.   
  


Let me be helpful.   
  


Let me be big-time useful in the saving the world business.   
  


I try not to give her any ideas, looking away before I speak. That's why I've got Spike, I say.   
  


She cocks an eyebrow at that. "I thought you had Spike for orgasms."   
  


That stuns me for a sec before I can respond. Okay, you know what? No more sleepovers at Anya's.   
  


It takes a second, but we finally let ourselves laugh at that. I mean, really laugh ... the kind that makes your sides sore and your cheeks ache. And as we do, the tension bleeds away, flittering away into the night.   
  


We're both still giggling when I take a really good look at her -- a _really_ good Slayer-y-Slayer type look -- and my laughter cuts off as quickly as it started.   
  


Oh, my God.   
  


Dawn immediately notices the stunned look on my face, and her own giggles die a quick death. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asks. Her hand shoots up to her forehead, her chin, her pert little nose, rubbing at them gently. "Do I still have demon goo on me? Or something in my teeth? Oh, God, I don't have demon goo in my teeth, do I?"   
  


It's hard to explain the way it feels, being in the same room with another Slayer. Like rubbing a balloon against your nape. Like someone dropping ice down the back of your shirt. Like there's a bloodsucker in the room, but a little ... orgasmic. It tickles in all the good ways, although it's not like I was going to be practicing sharing with that concept anytime soon.   
  


I'm amazed I never 'fessed up about it when I was Faith, to be honest. Talk about a warm and fuzzy feeling.   
  


I never knew why it did that. And I dooubt the Watcher's Council ever got filled in on that party trick. But it's not hard to miss.   
  


Yet, here I was. Missing it.   
  


Nothing, I manage to rasp out. It's nothing, Dawnie. We'll talk about this some more in the morning, all right?   
  


Dawn nods, her smile growing little by little as she leans the staff against the wall. And then ... whoosh. Dawn huggage.   
  


Her too-thin arms wrap around my neck, and I sink into her embrace. Her hair whispers past my face, the scent of coconut conditioner heavy in the air.   
  


And then she's gone, a goodnight tossed over one shoulder, her footsteps pounding up the basement steps, the door slamming shut behind her.   
  


And finally, for the first time, all of Faith slides away from me for a heartbeat, a fraction of a second, and I feel strong enough as Buffy and Buffy alone to say what I have to say without bursting into tears or doing the dance of joy.   
  


Admittedly, I'm saying it to the Christmas decorations. But still, words being said.   
  


Dawnie, I whisper, you're not a Slayer.   
  


And it isn't Gracie, Queen of Denial saying it.   
  


It's Buffy, and it's true.   
  


I don't care why she can do what she can do right now. I'm busy thanking God here. Here's hoping he doesn't want any firstborn children of mine for this early Christmas present, because I was kind of planning on keeping those.   
  


But while we're being grateful, I'm dying to know.   
  


All right. Who gave my sister superpowers? 

   [1]: 



	3. Stay Away

[][1]

_Author's note: Sorry this is a little late. But after what happened this week (I had friends and family in NYC, the Pentagon, and western PA who are all okay, thank God), I'm sure you understand._

********************** **

Tuesday's Child ...   
by Troll Princess 

********************   
  


**Chapter Three: Stay Away**   
  


Used to be that I could actually make it through the night with a normal, non-prophetic dream. You know ... shopping on Bill Gates' credit cards. Forever on a beach in Mexico with Keanu. Finding out Christina Aguilera's really a demon and I'm allowed to hack her to pieces with a mace.   
  


You know. Normal stuff.   
  


Not monks.   
  


Theoretically, I should never dream of monks. Ever, ever, ever. Absolutely no monks in my head. Unless, of course, they're marrying me and someone who looks suspiciously like Billy Idol. (Yeah, I know, the relationship just got its toddling legs. I said _dreams_, all right?)   
  


But then again, saying I should never dream of monks? Kind of ignores the whole Slayer gig.   
  


Okay, so, two monks. One kind of scrawny and pale, one chunky and pig-eyed. Figure the Laurel and Hardy of the religious crowd. And they're in Dawn's room, sitting sedately, brown cloth spread across her light blue bedspread, tiny glass vials in their hands.   
  


But it's just ... weird. Majorly creepy. Because, hey, no Dawn stuff. Oh, sure, the bed's there. But it's hiding behind old wooden crates and boxes of winter clothes, the walls bare and the air thick with sunlit dust. I'm guessing this is the way it looked before the Key mojo got worked all over my life.   
  


But still, monk infestation.   
  


They raise the vials in their hands to one another in a cutesy tea-party toast. "Bound by pain," the Laurel-monk says.   
  


"Bound by fear," the Hardy monk says.   
  


"It has begun."   
  


"All will be altered."   
  


"The Key will be made flesh."   
  


"And blood."   
  


"And the prophecy will come to pass."   
  


"Amen."   
  


Can I just say, totally impressed with the solemn attitudes? I'm thinking prayer vigil. How 'bout you?   
  


"Well, aren't we melodramatic?"   
  


The voice comes from the doorway, out of my dream point of view, and both monks look up expectantly. Okay, come on, turn the camera around, guys ...   
  


Oh.   
  


It's that Doc guy. The one from the tower. The one from last night.   
  


Gee, talk about looking harmless. It wasn't like I got all that good a look at the guy when I was throwing him off Glory's tower, and last night, I was too busy getting a decorative bruise the size and shape of a two-by-four across my stomach.   
  


But now, he just looks so ... grandpa. No two ways about it. Just someone's cutesy old Uncle Morty in a monk costume, a gentle smile on his face.   
  


Okay, not getting the evil-guy-as-holy-guy reference.   
  


The other monks glare at him, and he rolls his eyes behind those tiny John Lennon glasses that went out of fashion years ago. "Oh, really. Don't look at me like that. Just because I'm not about to get moody doesn't mean you have to. Now, where are my sources?"   
  


His pleasant voice wipes the condescending smirks off the faces of the other two monks, and they eagerly hand him the itsy bitsy vials. He holds them up to the light, and that's when I notice the maroon tint to the liquid inside.   
  


Eww. Sample size bottles of blood. Well, that'll come in handy at Sam's Club, won't it?   
  


"This doesn't seem like very much," he says in this dry tone of voice. Something about the way he says it seems to mortally offend Hardy-monk, who practically smacks his own chest with a plump hand in shock.   
  


"Much is not needed," Hardy-monk blurts out.   
  


Laurel-monk follows up with a, "We can get more."   
  


You'd think his buddy had told him the whopper of all giggle-worthy jokes, 'cause Laurel-monk makes this noise that sounds a hell of a lot like a hyena mating call. "The subjects were quite willing," he wheezes in between inhuman howls.   
  


Subjects? Willing? Ooky feeling alert at twelve o'clock.   
  


Doc cocks an eyebrow at that, and this weird little smile crosses his face. "I'd be, too, if I were delusional," he says, and whatever humor he's got going is replaced by that creepy pleasant attitude as he slips the vials into his robes and claps his hands together. "Well, let's get this show on the road, shall we? I'm late for a domino tournament."   
  


The other two shoot to their feet, and the Hardy-monk perks up. "Oh, really? Can I come?"   
  


"Fool," the Laurel-monk sneers derisively. "We've got bowling tonight."   
  


Ooo-kay.   
  


So then Doc walks out, two monk-shaped puppies on his tail, and that's right about the time the dream gets interrupted by --   
  


_"Grace!"_   
  


And then I wake up.   
  


As if I weren't already bugging over the dream. For a sec there, I'd been positive I was actually going to have to _go_ with the monks. Bowling and domino tournaments? Not a chance. 

"Grace, wake up!"   
  


No, I don't want to wake up. When I wake up, I'm awake when things happen. That's not good. Or at least, it hasn't been recently.   
  


I bury my head deeper in my pillow, but that doesn't stop the teenager currently using my mattress as a trampoline from driving all thoughts of sleep from my head. Oh, sure, the thoughts of torture are still there, but sleep's slowly losing its appeal.   
  


I finally blink awake and look up to see a pair of clear blue eyes staring down at me. And the eyes are connected to a head, and the head is connected to already washed hair and a huge smile and a fully dressed Dawn.   
  


Not to sound all Jedi here, but I've got a bad feeling about this.   
  


"Hey. Want to go hit things with me?"   
  


**

********************

**   
  


Now here's what gets me.   
  


Slayer dreams? Prophetic. From the Latin, "proph" meaning "lame, annoying demons" and "etic" meaning "who will probably be attacking me at the most aggravating time imaginable. If I'm really unlucky, during a date."   
  


But the big part you should notice? "Will be." As in, hasn't happened yet.   
  


And as I'm clipping my hair back from my face, all I'm thinking is, "Call me crazy, but the monk thing? Sure doesn't feel prophetic."   
  


It doesn't, you know? It feels like a scene chopped out of a movie I saw on video last summer.   
  


I'd gotten out of the house before Dawn had starting pummeling me, since morningtime pummeling wasn't something I was looking forward to. She was just so ... excited. It was like, "Look, Mom! I can make major contusions!"   
  


But as I head towards Xander's apartment, all I can think is, no telling anyone about Dawn. Especially Giles. Drooly British guys ... so not something I want to deal with today.   
  


I've got to tell someone, though. Dawn's got Slayer powers, and she didn't get the decoder ring and the membership card. Something's seriously up with that, and it can't possibly be of the good. If five years on the Hellmouth has taught me anything, it's that suddenly acquiring kooky powers is never good.   
  


So I figure, Spike first. Eliminate the worry, you know?   
  


Yeah, I know. How weird is that? Last week, my biggest priority on the Spike front was making sure he knew that Buffy nookie was totally out of the question.   
  


Of course, then I slept with him. But still. When I said it, I really, _really_ meant it.   
  


As soon as I get to the front door of Xander's apartment, I pound on it a couple of times, fully expecting to get a faceful of snarky blond vampire. But it's Xander at the door, all scruffy and just woken up in slouchy sweats and no shirt. Yeouch. Now I know how he gets Anya so hot and bothered.   
  


Oh, God.   
  


Now I'm having Xander-sex flashbacks. You know, I'd been trying to keep the Xander-sex memories to a bare minimum for the past few days, but talk about impossible when I've got lifting-heavy-objects abs in my face.   
  


I keep this up, I'll think twice about bleachy bloodsucker smoochies.   
  


Ummm ...   
  


Nah.   
  


"Hey," Xander says, a little too cheerfully. "If it isn't my special squished-together buddy." Xander gives me a good, old-fashioned friendly punch in the arm. Everybody keeps up with the violence, and I swear I'm becoming a pacifist. He bows and extends his arm, doing the exaggerated gentleman thing.   
  


I smile as I pass him going in, but I'm still a little squirmy about his attitude towards the whole Siamese Slayer thing. Truth is, I think Xander glazes over the part of me that's Faith when he looks at me. All that really matters to the guy is that somewhere in here is what's left of Buffy.   
  


Whatever keeps you sane, right?   
  


Hey, Xander, I say, asking him if Spike's up and around.   
  


Xander shakes his head as we walk into the kitchen. "Nope. He's dead."   
  


Okay. Wha-huh?   
  


Xander squirms from the look on my face and turns away to get a bowl out of the cabinet. A box of Fruity Pebbles and the milk are already out on the table. "Well, he is," he says defensively. "I have a corpse in my apartment. It's so disgusting. Other people don't have corpses in their spare bedrooms."   
  


Oh, really? I ask how long he's lived in this town.   
  


He rolls his eyes at that, then heads over to the spare bedroom and nudges the door open a crack. Both of us peek in, and even in the darkness the closed blinds allow, Spike's not all that hard to spot. You know those glow-in-the-dark stars people put on their bedroom ceilings? They don't have anything on vamps. You try being that pale and _not_ glowing in the dark a little.   
  


The two of us stare at him, so still, so dead, and Xander whispers, "You know, I've never actually seen a bloodsucker sleeping. He's sorta ... peaceful."   
  


You know, I really wonder about Xander sometimes. Like now.   
  


"Hey, want to see a neat trick?"   
  


I eye him warily. This better not involve ...   
  


That. This better not involve _that_.   
  


I groan as quietly as I can when Xander snatches one of Anya's compacts off the kitchen counter, ducks into Spike's bedroom, and says, "Voila, no fogging up the mirror," while proving that yes, there is no fog on the mirror.   
  


You've got to be kidding me. I'm not watching this. Nope. Good girlfriends don't let their best friends prove they're necrophiliacs.   
  


Xander stares at me in total disbelief as I head back into the kitchen and he bends over Spike's prone body. I half-expect the guy to wake up and grab onto Xand just to spook him. "What? Like you've never done it."   
  


I haven't, I say, plucking an apple out of the fruit bowl in the center of the kitchen table and taking a bite. Past apple chunks, I add, Vampires don't breathe. Me, one. Curiosity, a big, fat zero. Now get out of Spike's bedroom.   
  


"Actually, it's my name on the lease --"   
  


I yelp out his name, trying to sound as Slayery and in control as I can.   
  


He flinches at that, nearly dropping the compact in his hands, and I could swear I see the corners of Spike's lips twitching as if he's about to burst out laughing. "Right. Vacating the premises," Xander says, muttering under his breath as he leaves, "Even if there are my premises."   
  


As soon as the door shuts behind him, I've just got to ask. I mean, come on, you've got to be sufferin' through the wonderin', too. So I say, Why are you even letting him stay with you? I thought you had a strictly no-dead guy rule.   
  


Honestly? I think Spike's rubbing off on the guy. My theory is that Spike and Xander have been in the middle of their own private buddy movie for the past few weeks.   
  


But hey, maybe that's just me.   
  


"I do," Xander says, as he passes me on the way to tasty cereal goodness. "But we got this great deal on this recently emptied two-bedroom, and we were going to take Dawn in, but then you had to come back and be all alive. Bad, bad Slayer."   
  


Hey, get your own Dawn, I say.   
  


Xander smirks as he cocks his head in the direction of Spike's bedroom. "I did that. This Dawn smokes like a chimney and leaves hair dye stains on the wallpaper. Want to trade?"   
  


Not a chance.   
  


I finish up the apple as he tosses together his complicated breakfast cereal recipe. "So, what's up?" he asks. "We going a'fightin' a big evil badness?"   
  


What am I supposed to say? My sister's a Slayer, then my sister's not a Slayer, and then I have monks? Oh, yeah, that'll go over really well.   
  


Not that I know of, I say with a shrug.   
  


Xander stops shoveling soggy Fruity Pebbles into his mouth long enough to say, "Well, good, because today, I was planning on a'fightin' a big evil belt sander, and frankly, that's about all I can handle."   
  


Yeah, I'll second that.   
  


But a part of me's gotta know if he's spotted any of Dawn's neat new party tricks. So I ask Xander if he's noticed anything wrong with Dawn.   
  


He frowns, confusion all over the place, and says, "You mean outside of the dimension-opening boo-boos? No. Why?"   
  


All right, bite back the sigh of relief, Gracie.   
  


No reason, I say with a plastered-on smile.   
  


Yeah, right.   
  


**

********************

**   
  


"You dreamed of monks?"   
  


It sounds so weird when Giles says it like that.   
  


Okay, let's face it. It'd sound weird if Giles said it in a drunken slur, an Irish brogue, or Pig Latin. But add the look of pleasant intellectual surprise and that strand of pre-research drool and Giles is gettin' positively frantic.   
  


I quit flipping through one of Giles' more dusty research books and say, It's not like I got to pick out the topic, Giles. If I did, I would have woken up holding an ax over Dawn's Christina Aguilera CD.   
  


He stares at me questionably for a good four seconds before I tell him not to ask.   
  


"Yes, well." He clears his throat and comes out from behind the counter of the magic shop. His gaze flashes quickly towards Anya, who stands on the other side of the store prodding some poor schlup into another sale, then sits down at the table beside me. "It sounds to me as if you were dreaming up something prophetic regarding the monks who created Dawn."   
  


As opposed to all those other monks I know, I say, which gets a cocked eyebrow out of Giles.   
  


I guess I could leave off at that, some nice, normal everyday monk humor, but fact is, ever since last night's big revelation with Dawn and the Slayer powers, I'm figuring this means something huge. Something I can't pick up because Giles' job is to know everything and I'm just supposed to hit anything with teeth bigger than mine.   
  


And the Doc angle? Bugging me to no end. I mean, I know I was sort of dead at the time, but you'd think the rest of the gang would have noticed the slightly alive demon scurrying away and have exacted some quality revenge on his ass and my behalf.   
  


Last night, he whacks me one, and then he shows up on the dream theater. Call me crazy, but I'm guessing the two cameos go hand in hand.   
  


I ask, But doesn't it sound off to you? I mean, they were in Dawn's room, but she didn't exist yet. It was like I was having a Slayer dream, but backwards. He gives me another "wha-huh?" look, and I add, You know what I mean.   
  


"Quite." Ooo, dry English wit in full effect. "I certainly could see why you'd think it was a dream of past events rather than future ones. There's quite a lot of sense to that line of reasoning."   
  


But I've never had a dream of the past before, I say. Just, you know, dreams of the future. Unfortunately, without lottery numbers, but still.   
  


For a second, Giles says nothing, and I'm pretty sure I've lost him. I'm also pretty sure that if I listen hard enough at Giles' ear, I'll hear the squeak of a metal exercise wheel as a hamster runs in it. He's just got that hamster-thinkin' look on his face ...   
  


... which he promptly snaps out of. Now he's got that "If you want, I'll say Eureka" look on his face. All in all, his two most-used looks. "Perhaps it's a side effect to merging souls. The combined power of two Slayers resulting in far more intense and far-reaching visionary dreams. I'll have to do research, of course, but it does sounds fascinating."   
  


If I look close enough, I can see the drool. I bite back my yack at his excited reaction as I hop up on the counter, legs dangling, and say, Okay, while you're being fascinated, I'm being creeped out.   
  


He glances over at me, shrugging as he says, "Fair enough."   
  


Squirming, I ask about Doc.   
  


Giles lifts his gaze from what he's doing, staring me down, then reaches out and squeezes my hand gently. "We'll figure it out," he says.   
  


"Buffy? You in here?"   
  


I can't help but hang my head. Oh, faboo. The OshKoshBeSlayer.   
  


I ignore my sister's bright, shining expression and look over at my Watcher. Giles, I ask, would you be totally annoyed if I got a big flashing neon sign on my head that said, 'My name is Grace now'?   
  


He spooks at that. "Surely you're joking. Neon, with your coloring?"   
  


I kid you not.   
  


It takes him a sec, but it finally hits Giles what he'd said, and he pales as he says, "Good Lord. I have to get away from you right now."   
  


Exit, Giles. Stage ... um ... northwest? I dunno. Place Giles behind counter. Put him on his knees. Let him dig through a box of icky things I'd rather not mention for fear of testing the old gag reflex. Now you're set.   
  


And then there's Dawn, who Tiggers her way over to me. "Hey," she says, a beaming smile on her face as she punches me in the arm.   
  


I think I'm unintentionally flashing the patented Faith Demonic Twinkle in the Eye, because Dawn flinches a little as I cross my arms and tell her to stop it.   
  


She bats her eyelashes over her clear, innocent blue eyes as she says, "Stop what? I'm only punchin'. Friends punch arms."   
  


Well, in that case ...   
  


Okay, I say with a shrug, and punch her one in the arm. I don't even bother holding back -- if last night was any indication, she can take it.   
  


Then again, maybe not.   
  


Of course, I'm fairly sure a big part of her shocked wince is just for show. This is why Dawn doesn't play poker. "Ow! Stop it."   
  


"Yes, please," Giles says, his accented voice drifting up from behind the counter.   
  


Dawn's still rubbing at the spot on her arm where I hit her, which'll probably be a couple of colors not found in nature any minute now, when she says, "Okay. Fine. No present for you."   
  


I'm sorry. I don't care if I've got bigger things to worry about. I hear "presents," my ears perk up, I start sniffing the air ... it's just not a pretty picture.   
  


I ask hopefully, I get a present?   
  


Dawn's smile could light the western seaboard, it's so bright. "Sure. It was your birthday yesterday. Sort of. Hence, presents."   
  


Ooo, good point. I like that. I wonder if I can milk the multiple personality gig for more presents. Let's see ... Faith's birthday, my birthday, Buffy's birthday, whatever official birthday the Watchers decide fits into their paperwork ...   
  


Oh, God. I sound like Anya. Not that that thought's stopped the bouncy excitement or the little girly squeaks I've been making.   
  


Don't look at me like that. I'm pretty sure I'm owed a spare birthday for the last one Buffy had where her sister decided to slice and dice herself and the last one Faith spent fending off a Sharok demon and its seven tongues while in jail.   
  


Even Giles agrees with me. He pops up from behind the counter and blinks in total confusion. "We were supposed to get presents?"   
  


You can shop for me later, I say, reaching behind the counter and pushing him back down, then turn back to Dawn. I think I'm giggling. I don't giggle. This is ridiculous. What'd ya get me, I ask. Is it a pony? Huh? Huh?   
  


Dawn gives me a second to calm down -- not like I do much of it -- then bounds back over to the front door and drags in some poor guy from outside. As soon as she pulls him down to the lower level, she raises up in her arms in perfect Vanna fashion and says, "Ta, da!"   
  


All I can do is blink. Hey, look, my eyelids work.   
  


Okay, I did wake up after the monk dream, right?   
  


To be honest, as I stare at him, I'm not really sure this is a dream or a nightmare. 'Cause dream implies happy, fuzzy thoughts, and I'm having a couple of those. And nightmare implies equal parts fear and revulsion. Fear, check. Revulsion ... well, sort of checked. The Faith part of me's feelin' pretty nasty right now, and not in a good way.   
  


Actually, the Faith part of me's on a hysterical laughing streak. But there I go with the digressing.   
  


I'm not sure how to react. So I do what any normal person in my situation would do -- turn to Dawn and ask where my pony is.   
  


Dawn's smile wavers only slightly at that, only falling off her face completely when Riley glances from me to Dawn and asks my sister, "Where's Buffy?"   
  


So let's see. Defeated a hellgod. Died to save the world. Started falling for a nice, good-looking corpse.   
  


Ha, I was right! I did absolutely nothing to deserve this. 

   [1]: 



End file.
